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Sabado Gigante, Keister Sunday

THE KEISTER BUNNY

It is named for where it keeps its eggs.

HATH ARRIVED.

Since its mother-in-law, Bitchface Rabbit, is WISH YOU WERE ME’s coverbun, this cryptocacalogical wonder hopped from the dumpster behind the nearby IHOP, where it spends its off-season, and into my home to help me jury this blog’s competition for an autographed copy…

of this…

Use it replace your child’s feeble stabs at self-expression.

Like a four-leaf clover, this divides into three.

It is stuffed with sumptuous brain farts pruned by nalgas sharpened on an unsuspecting metate.

Competitors seeking to win Wish You Were Me, a.k.a. the Heisman Muff, have been vying for seven days, attempting to win the unfortunate trophy by identifying my most (in)accurate celebrity lookalike. Entries that make me feel as if I am weighing half a dozen douches against six terd sandwiches began clogging my mailbox, with joy, the day I put out the call.

I received a total of 9 entries. 8 were from myself. 2 were from me.

After the Keister Bunny’s aromatic arrival, it hopped in circles around my living room, leapt onto my coffee table, bent over, and shot a rainbow of cacitas into my mouth. It tossed some Zapp and Roger on the stereo, and we got to work.

It sorted entries. I chewed.

The Keister Bunny disqualified two entrants, Ruth Buzzibody and Lurchador Addams, during the first elimination round, thus, disqualifying both of my major attempts at winning my own prize.

“I loved you on Kids Incorporated,” I confessed to Ruth the afternoon that I met her in a horse stall. “Who knew Stacy Ferguson would grow up to be a famous ho and you’d grow up to be the guest celebrity at the LA County Fair?” Sheep baaaaaaad in agreement.

Onto the On-the-Waterfronters!

I say to the Keister Bunny, “Competitor 1.0, Fish, writes, ‘BRANGELINA Girllll–you–are–so–lovely. That Lionel Richie ballad immediately comes to mind! I think i still got Richie on the brain from the La Bamba post. And speaking of Reetchie, you do look a smidgen like Christina Ricci. Of course, you know she greeeeeeew up! You also look a hell of a lot like Angelina Jolie, with a sprinkle of Latin-Pol. With the addition of honey, you look like a cute lil nutless Baklava. In your teen years, you looked just like the Gerber Baby, hence the name Gurba baby. When you eat, you resemble Tweety Bird (it’s the tiny portions) Sometimes I spy a morsel of Sophia Loren. And very very seldom I can see remnants of leaves and sticks from the bulrushes, leaving you to resemble Jane, of Tarzan and Jane.'”

While this answer is thoughtful and whimsical, it also flatters me so much that I now want to go hide in a cave and eat twigs.

Competitor 1.1’s entry is, also, strong. She references multiple prior posts, but as I place her entry in the winner’s circle, the Keister Bunny grabs my wrist, hard. Its going to leave mark.

The rabbit says, “Fish would probably better appreciate one of your hand-dipped booby prizes, if you know what I mean.”

The Keister Bunny has the same voice as Lu Ann de Lesseps, the test-t (as in testosteronic) Countess from Real Housewives of New York.

Competitor 9 times 9, L’il Corn Chip, writes, “My wife looks exactly like you. This is her as a newborn.

Wait–that’s ET. I think you look a lil like Carrot top would if he went off of the steroids and dyed his hair–I also once hooked up with a stripper named cinnamon. You sorta resemble her too. Yeah–my wife meets ET meets Carrot Top meets Cinnamon.”

The Keister Bunny, nibbling a zucchini tamal, leans over to examine the enclosed photograph.

“I’m not sure,” I say, “but doesn’t it seem like it would be fun to say.”

“REMEMBLE THE TITANS!” we shout.

“Shut up!” screams the 40-year-old chola from next door.

“Do we have a winner?” I ask the rabbit.

“No,” it says. “The Machete actor you most rememble is Danny Trejo.”

I blush. “Keister Bunny, stop!”

It shoots more jelly beans at me.

I read the final entry, from Roadbyker: “With honey on your face, you’re the famous Baklavaling. ”

“The Baklavaling!” cries the Keister Bunny. “Yes, the Baklavaling!”

“What’s the Baklavaling?” I ask.

“According to cryptozoologists who specialize in critters of the Caucasus, the Baklavaling is a nutty dessert that doesn’t shave its legs and walks around the house in men’s underpants. Its female and flaky. I saw it, once, when I was traveling the outer rim of Kurdistan. Its rival is the Baklavashian. That thing is fame-hungry, tacky, and married to a former Olympic Gold Medallist.”

“We have a winner?”

“Yes, we have a winner.”

All participants are urged to contact L. Brain to collect either a booby prize or their trophy. I can be reached through this site or FB. Or talk to the rabbit behind the IHOP.

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8 comments

My phones autocorrect informed me that “remembles” is indeed a word. Also, I demand a recount. “Baklavaling” wins. That weird candy no one ever eats, that just sits on sad white plates at art openings? I guess I will just have to torrent a copy of your book. Thanks for nothing.